Super-sized Series

 Electronic Shenanigans 

 

 

Peggy with purple hair makes a Facebook friend request to Lori Levy

NO ONE DIES ON FACEBOOK by Lori Levy

Once again I’m struck by the fact
that no one dies on Facebook.
We get birthday reminders for everyone,
including the dead. When a friend writes happy birthday
to a former classmate, I wonder if she knows he’s dead.

Today I get a Friend Request
from a woman who died two years ago.
For a moment, stunned, I almost believe
it’s real, that my dear friend Peggy
is reaching out to me from some faraway place,
from the ashes of the underworld, perhaps,
or maybe from Heaven.
I’m tempted to respond, to accept her request—
but I’m already friends with her. Or was.

I think of our last time together,
how I held her hand as she lay in bed,
fragile, weak, 100 years old.
How she comforted me:
I’ll live on inside you, she said.

And now here she is with the streak of purple
in her hair, charming me, requesting my friendship.
I can’t help smiling, as if she’s not on the screen,
but across the table from me in Marie Callender’s,
talking poetry, life, and, of course, sharing
a slice of our favorite chocolate cream pie.
 

 

  Facebook friends wished Will Mayo happy birthday Nov. 17 two years after his death

Monk of the Written Word by Marianne Szlyk

For Will Mayo (1960-2022)

Will said he hated the Holy Rollers
of his small-town, backwoods youth.
After death, he wrote, many late nights,
was nothing. No heaven, no hell,
no next life, no do-over.

But he lived like a monk
in his cell, one or two rooms
narrowed by books, leaves as yellow
as October.  He never left his home
to walk along the river, watch the sky.

Nowadays, to live like Han Shan,
you need a Ford Truck for the roads,
a generator, some MREs, and guns.
Will had two rooms of books and a cat.
He lived a mile from a quaint downtown,

simulacrum of his birthplace with dusty
bookstores, lunch counters, and junk stores.
It could have been the place I used to live.
It was not the place where I live now,
small city that expressways run through.

The last time that I took the bus
up to Frederick, Will gave me books.
Next time I was going to give him some,
the story of a Brit who swam in lakes and
streams, the story of William Least Heat Moon

who rode the rivers to the West Coast.
Will’s books were old science fiction – the future
we’d never see.  Or they were about death,
subject of his morning and midnight meditations,
perhaps his last thought that July evening,

a cloudy day, not a hot day, not even
in that cell, with Velvet, his cat, perhaps
his last thought before whatever came next.

Note; This is an elegy to a friend I knew mostly via email and Facebook. Will’s Facebook page is still up. He has 2,500 friends. https://www.facebook.com/wsmayo

First published on Mad Swirl

Three poems by Shoshauna Shy

FACEBOOK

Chelsea had 364 friends
and when Chelsea posted
that she was about to wash
a load of laundry
or had decided to drink
a can of Pepsi instead
of Mountain Dew,
28 of them had something
to say about it.
No matter what Chelsea did,
her friends participated.
Then when she crossed
Dunbar Road and got killed
by a mail truck,
everybody talked about her
for 11 hours straight.
Well, it seemed like everybody
till a week or so later when
55 of her special friends posted
    Happy Birthday, Chelsea!

Note; Chelsea is a fictional character inspired by a true story.

previously published in
The Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar 2013



PLEASE ENTER
YOUR PASSWORD

At any given moment
somebody is thinking
about writing to me.
Somebody is composing
a message to me;
somebody is completing
a message to me;
somebody is hitting SEND.

Someone somewhere
is planning to make time
to read what I wrote to them;
reacting to what I wrote
to them; reading it again.
Somebody is hoping
the next time they check–
after supper & before TV–
they will find a message
from me; somebody is re-
checking for a message
from me; someone is wondering
what the hell am I doing
since they have no message
from me.

It could happen if we pass
while walking the shoreline
of Brittingham Bay.
No one’s with me;
I don’t carry a phone.
You may think I would like
to have company.
The truth is I’m not
really alone.

CELL PHONE

                Digital Trends
                May 21, 2013

Leaning sideways in the passenger seat,
The young man’s butt cheek presses 911

Give me the hammer just in case
Relayed directly to a dispatcher’s ear

As is the shatter of glass, excited yips,
The frenetic getaway to absolutely
Nowhere.

Request Denied by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

I start to click “Confirm,” then stop.
I didn’t like you in high school:
why would I like you now?
Of course, it’s possible you’ve evolved,
gotten over sneering at those whose opinion
doesn’t match your own,
realized women have some purpose
beyond stroking your ego,
discovered rules apply to you, after all.
Perhaps your 1147 Facebook friends know
something I don’t,
can’t imagine your velvety voice
ever uttering crude comments
or racist rhetoric,
are convinced you’re where you are
because you deserve to be there.
But probably not.
Probably you’re the same schmuck you always were,
elbowing yourself into places you don’t belong
like an inappropriate apostrophe: irritating,
out of place,
unnecessary.



Two poems by Joanne Durham

Garbage  

Creepy old guy’s digging through
the garbage at 6:00 am –
Bill complains
on the locals’ page.
Neighbors suggest he’s an artist,
gathering tin to shape
into tourist treasures,
replace creepy
with harmless, quiet,
down on luck,
vow to leave sorted cans
along his route, even say
his name.

Bill retorts SO WHAT
DO I TELL MY KIDS?
preparing for school
in morning shadows.
I reply:

Go to school, my dear ones,
learn to salvage
the bounty that belongs
to us all. Scrounge
through rubbish to find it,
don’t be shooed away
like a swarming fly.
It’s your world to retrieve.  

From On Shifting Shoals,

An Observation from 300 Hours on Zoom             
 
Faces fixed in separate
boxes, lips stiff,
eyes flat with fatigue,
I am so often smiling.
 
Is it flippant, this smile, brightened
by sunshine from my ocean-facing window,
reflected in the eyes of my forever partner,
while the great pandemic of our time
 
tightens the visage of the lonely,
exposed, homeless? Or do I assume
my mother’s smile, smoothing
a safe veneer over rough grain?
 
Duchenne, the French scientist,
could tell the difference, two muscles
vital to a genuine smile
are only triggered by joy.  
 
The liquid warmth of my smile
travels down my lungs and heart,
the upward curl of lips begins
a self-embrace, satisfies a hunger                               
 
to hold moments closely – my smile a cradle
for rocking love into memory,
where everything touches everything
and nothing is boxed in.
 
From To Drink from a Wider Bowl

Letting Go of Slack by Elaine Sorrentino

The knock brush sound
alerts me to a new message

@Elaine There is no malice behind what I am writing
your voice no longer takes precedence

I wish to do a good job
but it’s unclear what that means now

@Elaine Today on, she moves forward
without interference from us

Rules have changed
no one has informed me

@Elaine It seems you’ve reached
your frustration level

Just when it appears we’re making progress
it all hits the fan

@Elaine Events that happened last night
were the straw that broke the camel’s back

How can my pure intention
be so erroneously interpreted

@Elaine let me be clear
I do not suffer technical glitches
.
Alone in my kitchen where I once wept uncontrollably,
I delete the app and dance with abandon.

 

Two poems by Sharon Waller Knutson

The Robots Go Rogue and Reek Havoc on the Virtual Journal

They splatter white
paint over words
poets anguished
over for decades.

Shrink sentences
and stanzas so small
even readers with 20/20
vision squint.

And then parade out
letters so large
they overpower seniors
with macular degeneration.

No wonder the editor
sprouts bald spots
and his hair turns gray
as he groans and grimaces.

Finally he calms down
the cranky and crabby
with cups of coffee
and in conciliation

they remove the white out
and put the vowels and verbs
on a sensible diet to please
all eyeballs on the planet.

 

The Free Yacht Party and Sushi

Sound scrumptious as snow
sifts like sugar across
the sidewalks in the suburbs.

But when I tell the texter,
Sorry, my name Isn’t Kelly,
but can I come anyway?

he replies: Sure, honey.
Just send me your name
and credit card number.

When I tell him I don’t
have a credit card,
he says, Send Cash.

I accept the friend request
of the silver haired widower,
stomach flat as his skillet

sizzling on the stove,
buckling his sheepdog
into the seatbelt

of his Chevy Silverado
as the sun sets
over the skyline.

He invites me to visit
as soon as I send him money
to save him from foreclosure.

The invitations stop
when they suspect
I am an undercover cop.

 

 

When I’m in Charge by ‘Luanne Castle

Someday you will realize it was me
and know what you’ve lost.
When the cancer cure is announced,
I will be the anonymous healer.
I will defeat A.I. before it takes over
our world, outwit the hackers,
the scammers and spammers.
You will realize I designed a safe
airbag, cultivated thirty new flavors
of raspberry and pineapple, let
lima beans go extinct. That I wrote
a wildly successful Christmas song.
Like the boy seeing the emperor,
I exposed big lies with one push
of the button, but kept the little ones;
only I knew the difference.
You can thank me for solving
what was known as the gun problem.
We’re all safe in the future because
of what I’ve done, outlawing grief
and its wily predecessor love.

from Rooted and Winged

Goodnight Moon by Mary Ellen Talley

Gosh, it’s 10:30 am in New Delhi.
It’s 11 pm here in Seattle, the clock’s a bit groggy,
and 6 am looms early in the morning.
All I want to do is record Itsy Bitsy Spider
and Good Night Moon
for my grandson in Navy town, Portsmouth, Virginia.

This week I am Dell Support Case #144056698,
getting directions from pleasant whiz kids
who toss me the ball across the globe,
and I close out saying, Goodnight, Amit
as noises everywhere roll across the moon
and I become the little old lady whispering hush.

 

How to Succeed at Exploratory Software Testing for Bugs by Margaret Coombs

Inspired by Shoaib, L., Nadeem, A., & Akbar, A. (2009). An empirical evaluation of the influence of human personality on exploratory software testing. 2009 IEEE 13th International Multitopic Conference, Islamabad, Pakistan, 2009, pp. 1-6.

Breaking news:
for exploratory testing
hire an intelligent extrovert
because interaction
is the fun of the hunt.
*
O beauteous bug!
Won’t you reveal
the silhouette
of your sleek
carapace
to me?
*
That code uses you wrongly.
Think about it.
I wrote your escape:
a clean path of sunshine
and cedar. The drone
of a great lake wiping
the beach.
Just show yourself.
*
My stealthy acumen
is undaunted.
You hide.
I seek.
*
Everything
in software
must serve it.
I judge you
wrong!
Your useless errors
sow confusion.
Such apostasy.
Repent!
Or hell awaits.
*
My tiny bug,
my imp,
my rascal,
did I scare you?
*
Come here.
No one will hurt you.
Cake is waiting.
*
And now to find
your older brother.
Do you want to help? 

 

Before We Had Cell Phones by Rose Mary Boehm
 
I
I nearly fall out of bed. The sharp shrill
of the landline. Again. Gawd, it’s two in the morning.
Mum, I missed the Tube. Half blind I find my jeans, pull on
a sweater. Where the hell are my keys. Look with a certain
resentment at her father who is snoring gently.
How on earth did I negotiate those tortuous bends
half asleep. Just the thought makes me shiver.
 
II
Now they have their own cars. Decided
not to fret and take a pill instead. Nothing
good can come from not sleeping. First light
finds me peering through a gap
in the curtains. His blue one? Parked. Her little
red one? It’s on the other side of the road.
Of course, it’s under that tree from which the birds
will carelessly deposit their droppings.
 
III
Thirty years have passed. Crossing Marylebone High,
my daughter calls an Uber on her cell
takes my elbow, matches my stride,
releases me only after depositing
me safely on the pavement.

 

From Life Stuff

 

We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties by Judith Waller Carroll

I am old enough to remember that message
on the static-y screen of the black and white TV,
an antenna on top, giving the peace sign.

My old flip phone is nearly as obsolete,
and now the top is loose and a robot
comes on the line when I try to make a call.

My kids can’t understand why I don’t want
a phone that lets me text and take photos,
that I’m stuck in the age of real face time,  

stuck in a time when phones stayed inside,
on their hooks, and even the discouraged
didn’t always look down while they walked—

the sky too blue, the air too charged
with the language of birds.

 

Missing Clarence by Shelly Blankman

I miss Clarence, my old, trusty typewriter, its fresh
smell of carbon ribbon, the ding at the end of each
line. I miss being its boss. No red messages to correct
my spaces or question my grammar.

I loved the tap … tap… tap of the keys as I drafted
my first poems and stories. My kids did the same
from the time they were young. As computers
seemed to subsume the use of typewriters, I stuck
to Clarence like a twisted carbon ribbon glued to itself.

One day, the mom of my son’s classmate asked me
to work for her computer company. I respectfully
said no. I don’t know a thing about computers. That’s
okay, she responded. I’ll teach you. I told her I was
uneducable. She assured me I was not. I proved her

wrong. My first order of business on my first day was
to save a document for my boss. So I did. I printed it,
and placed it on her desk. After a frustrating search,
she sat at her computer for a while, sighing rather heavily.

I told you to save it. Where is it? I was about to prove
just how uneducable I was. It’s on your desk. First strike.
There were many strikes to go before she put me out
of my misery and fired me.

I’d tumbled from the Stone Age into a Jetson world.
Everything I’d learned in school was irrelevant. My
sons are patient in navigating me through the keys
so that I don’t mix up the em-dash with the ALT
with the TAB. They help me translate my antiquated
language into their technological vocabulary. They’ve
gotten used to me using words that are foreign to them.
And they’ve gotten used to me cursing at the computer.

I never cursed at Clarence.